


Nights Like These

by Corvid_Knight



Series: Mutantstuck [27]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Mutantstuck, family softness, fluff i guess? hurt/comfort? something like that, seriously tho did anyone think davesprite's were wholly physical, someone's got a new mutation manifesting!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:21:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24232741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight
Summary: You cup the back of his head in one hand for a moment—the downy feathers wound into his hair make it softer than anything else could ever be—then let that hand slide down to rest on his back, between the sharp shoulderblades. You can feel his heart like this, faster than a normal human's even when he's resting. "I gotcha, Dave. No more bad dreams when you're here with me."One of Ambrose's kids still comes to him for comfort at night.
Series: Mutantstuck [27]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1309922
Comments: 14
Kudos: 92





	Nights Like These

Out of the three of your biological kids—well, genetic might be a better word. _Biological_ implies...agency? Direct participation in creating them? Something like that. Technically you guess the definition you've mentally narrowed the term down to doesn't even apply to just-Dave, the one that the other two still call the prime sometimes; he might be the first and original, definitely fathered by Ambrose Strider, but you're...not that Ambrose Strider. Technically.

God but you hate technicalities. Anyway, out of all three of them Davesprite's the only one who takes advantage of the fact that you only rarely lock your door at night. He doesn't do it often, which is probably why he always manages to startle you when he does, and tonight is no exception—you feel warm delicate fingers on your bare shoulder and snap out of the hazy transitional state you're in between sleeping and waking, automatically trying to shove Cal down under the blanket as you roll over.

Not that it matters; Davesprite's watching you with those huge highlighter-orange eyes by the time you get turned around, mouth twisted into a lil' smile that conveys more sympathy than amusement. "You too?"

He comes to you when he's having a rough night. You break out Cal when _you're_ having a rough night. "Yeah. Here."

Davesprite waits patiently as you untangle yourself and kick the blankets back, scooping Cal up and flashstepping to tuck him in his box, hidden safely under a layer of shirts in a drawer. The camouflage probably ain't necessary, sure, but you still can't quite shake the feeling that leaving the puppet out is just...tempting fate. Or tempting _him_ , that bastard who had your puppet and your earrings and _you_ , for a little while at least; even if he's secured by people who know how to hold someone like you, the worry isn't rational.

You realize you've slowed to a stop beside the bed, one hand checking the lil' platinum studs in your ears. Davesprite's still watching, preening the soft feathers of one wing; he waits for you to sit and hold out your arms before he buries his face in your chest, curling up in your lap as you oh-so-carefully wrap your arms around him, wings and all. He's so damn _light_ , feels so fragile in your arms—more than Dave ever did, even as a toddler. Hell, even as a baby. It's Davesprite you worry about breaking, when you never worried about that with Dave.

Then again, that might have more to do with the fact that you know now that your kid _is_ breakable. Or it's a combo of both factors. Something like that.

Davesprite sighs against you and butts his head into your chest, hands gripping at the fabric of the shirt you cut the sleeves off of to make it comfortable enough to sleep in. "C'mon, Bro, lay down."

He still calls you that. Not often—not when anyone's around to catch it—but sometimes, Davesprite still calls you Bro. Maybe it's because you call him Dave on nights like these. "Hey, I don't know if you wanna sleep or just be held for a while—"

"Held _and_ horizontal. It's literally the exact opposite of rocket science."

You have to laugh as you do what you're told, settling on your back with him on your chest. He reshuffles his wings as you move, spreading them out like a new feathery blanket and letting the primary flight feathers trail off the bed. "Wouldn't that be like. Oceanography, or something? Downward, instead of upward."

He just groans. "Simple. I meant it's simple."

"Yeah, I know. I'm just being funny." You cup the back of his head in one hand for a moment—the downy feathers wound into his hair make it softer than anything else could ever be—then let that hand slide down to rest on his back, between the sharp shoulderblades. You can feel his heart like this, faster than a normal human's even when he's resting. "I gotcha, Dave. No more bad dreams when you're here with me."

"They're not dreams." That comes out muffled; Davesprite shudders as he says it, almost grinding his face into your shirt. That's got to hurt at least a little, but you leave it be for now. "I don't—I thought. I thought it was _normal_. Knowing about him. The prime. _Your_ Dave."

"Kid, you're as much mine as he is." You hate the loathing that colors Davesprite's tone sometimes when he talks about Dave. If it was directed at Dave himself you'd maybe know how to handle it, but it almost never is—it's himself he hates, especially at night, and all you can do for that is shift your hands to smooth down his feathers and keep talking, soft and calm. "You know I ain't _his_ bro, either."

"That bastard's dead." Davesprite goes silent for what seems like a long time, until you almost start to hope he's fallen asleep there on your chest. But no, not yet. "Wade killed him."

"Yeah." Of course, he came back. You have the scars to prove it. That's not something you plan to bring up now, though. "He's gone."

"Wade killed him," Davesprite says again, softer this time. "He...stabbed him. Not with one of his swords—with Bro's own katana. Because...because Bro stabbed him with it first. Before he knew what was happening."

That's...specific. Too specific, and even though no one's ever told you the full details of Wade took Dave away from the man you were cloned from, you have a horrible suspicion that Davesprite's right about everything he's said. There's no way he should know. 

"Dave didn't see." Barely a murmur now; Davesprite's trembling ever so slightly as he forces words out. "He didn't—Wade wouldn't let him, he didn't need to see that, he—"

"Shh." No more. Davesprite's voice breaks into a soft sound that's more like a wounded pigeon than the caws you hear from him when he's startled, and you shush him again, running your hand through his feathery hair. "Shhh...it's okay. I got you. That was a long time ago."

_How do you know,_ you don't ask him. _How the fuck do you_ know _about that?_

Davesprite's shudders and gasps and lets out little bird-noises against your chest for what seems like a long time, before he goes still. You just...wait. Quietly, still stroking his hair.

"Wade said he'd kill you," he finally whispers without raising his head. "You said you'd let him."

"I—" God. The memory of that first conversation—Dave staring at you across the table, tense and afraid even with you collared and shackled to your chair, the voices of D and the twins and yes, Wade coming over the loudspeaker as you struggled to accept that you were going to lose him again, lose them all again—it hits you like something physical, something solid enough to bloody your nose and leave you feeling for bruises and missing teeth. You think you flinch; the memories ain't supposed to be so real, so _here_. Even in dreams you only get a fragment at a time, disconnected scenes divorced from their context and nevertheless so, so real. So _immediate._

Wait. Connect the dots, or try to. "Dave, do...do you dream about—about this shit?"

Davesprite nods miserably, raising his head enough to meet your eyes. You're dismayed but not surprised at the tears trying to overflow down his face; he sobs and drops his head into your hands when you move to try to wipe them away. "It fucking _hurts_ , Bro—it's spying, I don't want to know, there's too much and it hurts so bad, it _hurts_ —"

Ah. Shit. You push yourself to sit up, folding Davesprite into your arms and rocking him like he's a kid again, a baby who's had a nightmare he can't explain. "I know, I'm so fuckin' sorry—I got you. I got you, Dave, I'll make it stop."

He makes a wet sound that could be another sob or could be a laugh, nails digging into your bare arms as you shift his weight. "Funny."

"I ain't kidding." You keep rocking him, one hand on his back and one cupping the back of his head, and try to think about the contents of your drawers. Cal's in one, of course; you just put him there. Others have more clothes, fragments of fabric and thread and needles and fiberfill that you haven't quite brought yourself to bring out except when you're feeling less real than usual and need the act of _making_ to prove to yourself that you exist, photos you've gathered of the time you missed, electronics that you keep meaning to use to improve...

To improve the gadgets Hal and Dirk lend you. Yeah, what you want isn't in a drawer but in a box shoved into the closet. "Stay put a minute, alright Dave?"

"What—Bro, no— _Bro_ —"

Davesprite's voice cracks into a desperate caw as you set him on the bed, and he grabs for your arm, but he's...careful. Afraid to add to the couple of red marks he's already left, maybe. Be that as it may, you're able to pull away from him and open the closet door, pulling the box out and unceremoniously upending it, sending bits of things clattering across the floor. It's a loud enough noise to startle Davesprite into silence; when you look over you see that he's drawn his wings in, feathers puffing out into what's almost an orb haloed around his torso and head.

_He's fine,_ you remind yourself. _Focus._

Right. You blink and stare at the pile for a moment, then reach out and select the one particular piece of hardware that you need, bringing it back over to the bed.

Davesprite's eyes widen when he sees the slim hinged arc of metal. Fear, maybe. "No. _No_ —Bro, I can't, those hurt, those fucking hurt—"

"They don't. Look." You raise the collar, fitting it to your neck and flicking the magnetic clasp Hal designed for the voluntary models shut. There's a sensation as you complete the circuit, sure—for you it's like a sudden quiet, the feeling in the air seconds after lightning's struck when there's no electricity lingering. The absence of potential movement. Strange, but not painful. "They ain't all like the ones in the lab. It's okay." And, because he's still watching you with those almost terrified orange eyes, "It'll make the dreams stop, I swear."

He's quiet and still for a moment. Then he reaches up to work the catch and open the collar, and asks, "Can I take it off again?"

"Whenever you need to," you promise.

Your word must be good enough—Davesprite hesitates as he slides the collar free of your neck and snaps it into place around his own, but he doesn't stop. He shudders as the effect hits him, swaying a little; you wrap him in your arms and pull him down beside you before he can either steady himself or collapse, pressing your face into his hair as he loops his arms around your neck tight enough to hurt. 

"You better fucking be here if I wake up," he warns you.

Not that you need it. "I ain't going anywhere but to sleep, Dave, and you're coming with me."

Davesprite doesn't argue with that. He croons deep in his chest and folds his wings down, and you hold onto him as both of you fall asleep. Tomorrow, you can ask him about talking to the rest of the family about this new facet of his mutations; tonight, you just need to get him to sleep.


End file.
